Syria

He talks to a lense
straight to camera,
shadows bruised
with peony haze

‘If you had a daughter they took her.
If you had a house they burnt it down.’

And screen after screen
is glittering through my living room
a rose scarf wrapped,
around her head,

faded skyline,
washed with sunset,
magenta cloud bank,
shot with grey.

His eyes are pink
as he talks about his family,

but black oil
is barely a trickle
and no one comes.